Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was about five years old, I was visiting my great-grandmother in Savannah, GA. One day she asked me what I'd like to have for dinner that evening and I answered the way I'd answer, even today. "Fried chicken," I exclaimed.

That afternoon, she went into the back yard, into the chicken coop, and executed a chicken. I wasn't there to watch that, or the plucking and cleaning.

What I do remember was learning of the event and not eating a single bite of chicken. I don't know if great-grandma was mad or anything; I was only five and, growing up in the city, I thought chicken came from the store.

I also remember eating her big fluffy biscuits. They were available, freshly baked, for every single meal, breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I already loved them. But I think that night, eating biscuits and avoiding the meal I ask for every time, I became a bread freak.